


break 'em down looking at my eyes

by yourendlessblue



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: 101 dalmatians au...?? i guess???, 5 shiba inus, F/M, Fluff, I mean I hope, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, insufferable dog parents royai, lol rip fuery, maes is a busybody, or just, or just roy actually, you're telling me he's not gonna be infinitely WORSE than riza as a dog dad???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26612098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourendlessblue/pseuds/yourendlessblue
Summary: Kain Fuery is dead.There’s no other outcome besides that; and it’s not that he’s gonna die, he is dead, already halfway to heaven and all that he really regrets is not finishing that damn thesis and not having a proper first job and not letting know his best friend that he’s always been in love with her and not getting married and not getting a puppy of his own and—Okay, there’s a lot of things he regrets.-(It's a fic about dogs. But also I don't know anything about dogs. Other than I love them and would love to have one. Or two. Or four.)Roy/Riza dog parents meet-cute AU.
Relationships: Kain Fuery/Sciezka | Sheska, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 10
Kudos: 38





	1. hit 'em with my love like

**Author's Note:**

> taking one for the team to give these two what they deserve: love and lots of dogs.
> 
> title from red velvet - bad boy (eng ver)

Kain Fuery is dead.

There’s no other outcome besides that; and it’s not that he’s _gonna_ die, he _is_ dead, already halfway to heaven and all that he really regrets is not finishing that damn thesis and not having a proper first job and not letting know his best friend that he’s always been in love with her and not getting married and not getting a puppy of his own and—

Okay, there’s a lot of things he regrets.

“I’m finished,” he says tensely to Sheska, who is still happy and still chipper and is somehow _delighted_ with this turn of events, even if it’s going to cost him his life. She shakes her head and crouches down to pet the dog, who’s also, _damn him_ , happily wagging his tail.

“Kain, you’re overreacting.”

“The man is a vet—I mean _war veteran_ , Sheska. And I think he’s a cop or an intelligence agent now or something and I don’t particularly care but he has guns and he _will_ definitely use them on me,” Fuery groans, remembering that one time he met his charge’s parent and startled because the man has a gun strapped on his hip. And across his chest. And—he doesn’t want to think about it.

“I’m pretty sure that’s illegal,” Sheska says cheerily, “you’re not a criminal, so he won’t have any reason to shoot you.”

“Sheska,” he wails again, “I let his girl get knocked up right under my nose.”

Sheska laughs, the sound lovely and tinkling; she’s always had a soft, timid voice, and it extends to her laugh. He likes it. Kain hopes he’ll be able to hear it again and again and again— “Kain, they’re adults who like each other,” she gestured towards their charges, “and look. That’s as much consent as we could infer from their relationship.”

The mock-seriousness of her tone makes Fuery snort; he fondly looks at the two dogs they’re taking back from the vet, trotting side-by-side on their leashes, occasionally giving each other little licking kisses.

“ _When_ did they do it is beyond me,” he grouses, and Sheska gives him a playful look.

“Give them some privacy, Kain,” she smiles, “cheer up. Who knows, maybe the agent is up for some puppies.”

+

He doesn’t know whether it’s a good or a bad thing, but Agent Mustang already caught wind of his imminent grand-fatherhood before Kain manages to think how he’s going to break it to him. So it comes to now: Kain is standing at attention (is he really, he’s not sure, but he’s trying to stand as ramrod straight and board-stiff as possible while at the same time fighting a strange innate urge to salute) before the agent as he sits on the sofa and examining his dog with a frown. His Lady—his dog, which he always refers as such—is contentedly prancing on her owner’s lap and licking the man’s face as he rubs the white dog’s only slightly fattened belly.

“My baby,” he whispers to the dog as he snuggles her close. The words are _so_ , so different from the way this man is making Kain’s knees shake right now, “ _who_ did this to you?”

Lady only licks Agent Mustang’s face and happily yips in response. At least he had good timing; the guy—the dog—in question, Black Hayate, is safe from the agent’s wrath within the bubbles of his shampoo; Kain had sent him to be groomed with his co-worker right before the agent materialised on the door, looking irate.

“Fuery,” Roy Mustang sighs, “how _even_ does this happen?”

 _Is he really seriously asking why dogs mate?_ “Sorry, sir. I—don’t—they must be in heat, I guess? And? I didn’t have my eyes on them?” Kain flinches as the agent narrows his eyes at him. It’s not like he could’ve _done_ anything! What was he expected to do?

Agent Mustang runs a hand through his hair. “Look, kid. I even had to leave her at a pet hotel—for three weeks because I had to be away. What makes you think I could manage a pregnant dog _and_ puppies?”

 _You should’ve spayed her, then,_ Kain thinks sourly. “I—sorry sir, but our policy did state that we can’t really take responsibility for such happenings for pets who aren’t neutered and spayed,” he gulps as Mustang throws him a dirty look that said _I know, but still_. He shifts on his feet. “I… maybe the dad’s owner would be fine with it…?” Right. If he’s gonna be alive tonight after the agent left, he’ll have to face a different, but similar song in three days: Hayate’s mom will come back, and if he doesn’t die from bullet wounds today he _will_ die with five goddamn arrows on his forehead, either side of his chest, his stomach. Kain shivers. Miss Hawkeye seems like a pretty gory killer.

“Do they even _know_?” Mustang asks with an eyebrow raised, seeing right through him. “Fuery, you have to tell them. Or you know what, you take care of the puppies when they come.”

 _Shit_ , he thinks; there’s honestly nothing else he wants than that, but he’s a broke masters student whose thesis defence is in two months, who had to take a part-time job at a pet hotel and salon because his research assistant pay is _shit_. His apartment _is_ dog-friendly, but his wallet is absolutely not, save for some two-or-three packets of treats monthly. Little newborn puppies are cute and delicate and all but they _need a lot,_ he might be able to (happily) provide the love and care but not the stuffs, food, milk—the things money has to buy, basically. And, well, Agent Mustang can technically give the pups up for adoption, but not at their hotel; they’re only a pet hotel and salon adjoining the vet’s office, not a pet shop, and the prospect of them going to a shelter honestly breaks Kain’s heart.

“Has this even happened before?” Mustang asks, gingerly setting Lady down as he stands.

“Honestly, I don’t think so,” Kain says, walking right into the trap, and flinching when he realises so. He sighs. “We apologise, Sir, but there’s really nothing we can do when the pups themselves weren’t neutered or spayed. Hayate’s owner’s picking him up in three days, though,” he offers, and the agent looks at him contemplatively before sighing.

“Fine,” the older man finally says, “I’ll be here.”

Kain, again, has to refrain himself from saluting.

+

_Well, this is new_.

Riza casts Kain a sidelong glance before looking at the man in front of her impassively. He’s not much taller than she is but his standing stance is straight and confident, and his dark hair falls messily on his forehead while his eyes, sharp and disarming, stares back at her with calculation. He has a nice nose, and his jawline, though not all-too-sharp, is nicely angled and masculine. He’s, well, he’s frankly easy on the eyes, but this is an amusing—no, ridiculous situation.

“Your mutt—“

“He’s a purebred Shiba Inu,” Riza snaps. The man—Roy Mustang, he said—looks at Hayate, _her_ Hayate with doubtful disinterest, and she feels her ire building.

“Good to know, then,” he says drily, “Lady is too, if you care so much about that sort of thing. But fine, your _purebred Shiba Inu_ got my girl in a _predicament_ , here.”

His white Shiba yips; if anything, she looks rather happy with the development, unlike him. “Well,” she starts, “what do you propose we do about it, then? Do you want—what, child support?”

She flinches. It sounds stupid, but also, the whole predicament _is_ a bit stupid. Hayate—man of the hour—trots off to Lady and peppers her muzzle with small licks and kisses and Riza is amused to find Mustang seemingly straining to not kick her dog. “I—guess?”

“Consider it done,” Riza says coolly. She doesn’t see why it should be complicated and dramatic and why Mustang looks so indignant about the whole thing; Hayate _is_ her baby, her sweet little good boy (one would argue otherwise at this point, but she’s biased and she’s allowed to be), but they’re, well. Dogs. And now they’re expecting puppies. It’s not really rocket science. Riza herself isn’t even averse to having more dogs, actually. “And the puppies? Are you going to keep all of them?”

Mustang blinks, a little taken aback with her efficient nonchalance—again, their kids are _dogs_ , it’s not like they’re parents of actual human children—and then he visibly relaxes, shaking his head and walking to the sofa in the waiting room, Lady trotting on his heels, Hayate on hers. Riza resists an urge to smile. “Well, there’s that. I’m not sure I can keep _any_. I’ve got a pretty demanding job,” he tells her, motioning Lady to come and she leaps easily enough to his lap.

She scoops the forlorn-looking Hayate from the floor and absently pets his head. “I wonder how many she’ll have. I won’t mind to take care of, I don’t know, up to two,” she says, joining him on the far end of the couch. She’s been meaning to get more dogs, actually; her recent trip would be the last for a little while, at least for six months, and she’s always wanted Hayate to have canine company. She ignores a voice in her head saying _damn it, you crazy dog lady_ that sounds suspiciously like Rebecca. “I’ll split the vet bills if you want to, I’m fine with it,” she offers.

Hayate barks, as if agreeing, and she can’t help but laugh, petting and smushing his face. “You act like it’s your money,” she admonishes him fondly, “the child support money will come from my pockets, you rascal.”

Mustang blinks, and then suddenly smiles—it’s a charming, slow grin that cracks his overprotective-dog-dad-façade, and Riza absently thinks if he knows how he looks like smiling like that, he must have weaponised it at one point or several. She gets the feeling he probably does. “Surprisingly, it’s settled, then,” he says, standing up again but still carrying Lady in his arms. Riza wants to roll her eyes but settles for a small, amused smile. “Want to take that first visit to the vet?”

The vet’s office is next door; she follows Mustang, with Hayate heeling her. She forgets to say bye to Kain.

+

Lady’s having three puppies.

Roy fondly pets the entire length of his pup’s body and lets her lick his face; he misses her badly, but his last mission can’t allow him to bring her—too dangerous, too flighty. It’s probably the first mission since he’s got her that he has to leave her behind.

 _And look what happened_ , he scowls.

The idea of puppies isn’t bad, per se, in fact it’s great, and he _loves_ dogs and puppies, dotes on Lady like there’s no tomorrow (Maes pities him for it, but he doesn’t care). But that’s the thing, she’s his _baby_ , and she’s having little baby puppies and he’s not aware of it and damn it, he’d chew Fuery out but it’s _true_ that the pet hotel policy exists. He was prepared to be disdainful and somewhat pissed at that mutt’s ( _purebred Shiba_ ) owner for not neutering her dog (pot calling kettle) but she was all too efficient and decidedly calm about the whole thing, and even willing to adopt the puppies when they come, so he couldn’t. It doesn’t help that she’s a really, _really_ attractive woman called Riza Hawkeye.

“What are you getting me into, girl?” He sighs to Lady, and she tilts her head as if questioning. _God_ his dog is the cutest.

“Three babies, huh,” he says, and Lady barks happily. Miss Hawkeye’s been a bit reluctant to take all three, capping her abilities to just two puppies at a time— _I live alone,_ she tells him, _and I don’t know, four dogs at a time’s a bit much_. “I guess I can ask Maes. Elicia’s turning six this year. What do you think, girl? She’ll be happy to be gifted a dog, I think.”

His cell rings, then, and Roy grins. Talk about timing. “I was just about to call you.”

“That’s new,” Maes drawls, laughing. “What’s up?”

“ _You_ called me!”

“Right, right. I just wanted to tell you Elicia’s going to star in a cute little school play. She’s going to be Red Riding Hood, how adorable is that?” He chuckles when Roy groans. “I just heard you’re back in town. Up for drinks?”

“Yeah, sure. It’s still mostly reports at this point, before we move to the next step. By the way,” he says, “think Elicia’s going to like a puppy for her sixth birthday?”

Maes pauses, and then laughs boisterously. “You’re gonna be a _grandfather_ ,” he says between laughter, making Roy scowl, “can’t believe you skipped the father part. It’s the most fun. Your Lady’s expecting?”

Roy sighs. “Yeah. A fuck-up, honestly. I mean, that student of yours should’ve watched their charges better. I come back home and find my girl knocked up.”

“You’re so damn dramatic. She’s a dog, what could Fuery do?” Maes snorts. “Congrats, man.”

“She’s different,” Roy protests, scratching the back of Lady’s ears while he’s at it. “She was there during the worst times of my life, helped me function and heal in more ways than one. She’s not just a dog, Hughes. She’s my companion.”

“I sometimes can’t believe it’s me who’s always demonised for gushing over my human family,” Hughes laments, “but anyways, I’d have to ask Grace first.”

“That’s great,” Roy sighs in relief, “the vet said she’s having three, and we’ve come to agreement for two. I don’t want to give her puppy to the shelter, but I don’t think I can take care of it, with the way of things.”

“Oh, who’s taking the other two?”

“The, uh, the dad’s owner,” Maes goes silent on the line, a sure sign he’s going to get a barrage of questioning. Roy sighs. Maes is eerily psychic like that. “Before you ask, yes, it’s a woman.”

He can hear Maes grin. “I wasn’t actually going to ask,” his best friend says cheerily, “but since you’ve so kindly provided the info, you _will_ have to tell me all about it tomorrow. I gotta go, though. 7PM tomorrow at Hound’s?”

“Fine by me.”

+

“Hey Becks,” she greets, squeezing her phone between her head and her shoulder, “I’m getting two puppies.”

“Fucks sake,” Rebecca groans, “what you need is a man, not _more dogs_ , crazy dog lady.”

Riza snorts. “I only have one dog, I think that hardly warrants such nickname,” she strokes Hayate on his side, and pats his fluffy rump fondly, “besides, you said so yourself, no man is as good as Hayate is.”

“I distinctly remember saying he’s a very good boy, not a good man,” her best friend chortles. “But true, men are pigs, and dogs are still better than pigs in my dictionary. Way better. Why two?”

“There’s actually three,” she says, “but I don’t think I can handle all of that, you know? Besides, I wonder if the mom would be alright to part with all of her babies. The mom’s owner doesn’t seem like he wants more dogs, though.”

“The puppers aren’t, like, ready?” Rebecca asks; Riza can faintly hear a chewing sound, and wonders if Rebecca is eating at Tenner Diner, perhaps fries with milkshake and ice cream—she salivates just thinking about it. It’s been almost a month since she was away, and besides Hayate, she’d missed everything badly. “I mean, they’re not born yet?”

“No,” she says, slowly grinning knowing that Rebecca will have a field day with the story, “actually. It’s going to be Hayate’s puppies. Apparently the boy met someone—some- _dog_ —when I was away.”

Hayate barks, and Riza switches her phone to speaker mode so she can coo at and snuggle him. “No _fucking_ way,” Rebecca finally says after a series of coughing fit and laughs which should’ve been concerning otherwise, but Riza’s witnessed her survive many near-chokings due to her dramatism and it’s just how it is, “don’t tell me your dog got laid while you were on the Olympics. Riz, I feel so bad for you. God.”

“Oh, shut up,” she tells her half-heartedly, mind trailing over to the dark-haired man who owns Lady, slightly smiling. He was acting all like a pissed dog-dad, agreeing to her actual, genuine offer of puppy support, but when they went to the vet together he ended up paying for it, claiming _I guess the first time’s on me would be fine_. Riza tucks a strand of her stray golden hair behind her ear and absently plays with it. “I don’t know, I won’t feel bad for me just yet, Becks.”

“So I take it the owner’s hot?” Rebecca asks, interested, “I pay attention, darling, you said _he_.”

Was he? Roy Mustang? Riza leans her head to rest on the couch and thinks of his messy dark hair, his subtly angled jaw, and his sharp, but warm eyes. He thinks of the way he absently runs his hand through his hair as he watches Lady being sonographed, adorably worried, the movement pulling on his dark shirt with the rolled sleeves…

He’s, well, yeah, he’s pretty hot. “He’s not bad,” she admits, ignoring Rebecca’s scandalised gasp.

“Shit, he’s really hot, then.”

“It’s not like—he’s actually really pissed Hayate got his dog pregnant, to be honest, so I don’t think—“

“Hot _and_ an absolute fool for his dog. Hawkeye, you’ve hit bullseye,” Rebecca says gleefully, and Riza rolls her eyes, but chuckles nonetheless.

“I _always_ hit bullseye.”

Rebecca laughs, airy and teasing. “I’m coming in with ice cream, you have booze, right? You’ve been away long, and Drachma’s upcoming, so we gotta catch up as much as we can, before you get whisked away by the dog dad,” Riza laughs loudly at that, “and on that note, _see_ , even your Hayate knocked a girl up! Men really ain’t shit.”

+

Maes is already waiting for him with two glasses of beer in front of him when he gets to Hound’s. The man must’ve come right away from his classes, he has his briefcase rested next to him on the booth and his suit jacket off over it. Roy himself had changed out of his workclothes, having had time to return Lady back home before heading to the pub.

“How’s things,” he grunts noncommittally as way of greeting the bespectacled man, and Maes simply raises his beer glass in response.

“The usual,” Maes says with a shrug. “And by that, I mean great. Grace said hello, you should drop by. Did the Southern intel turned up with anything?”

Roy takes a sip of the light beer and licks his lips. “Yeah. Coordination with South Feds is all done, now, but we’re not gonna make any premature arrest until we have something definitely damning. We’re looking at a date in about two, three months.”

“At South, or Central?”

“We think Central,” Roy says, “thanks for that tip-off. Really owe you one.”

Maes was medically discharged first, courtesy of a bullet that barely missed his aorta—a piece of shrapnel still rests there in his chest, on a point too compromising for the surgeons to extract. It’s thankfully nothing like a ticking time-bomb, though, and it was relatively going to be safe. The man continued on to be a professor, teaching intelligence gathering in a state university—though inactive, his maintained contacts and intels all around have always proven useful time and time again.

“I’ll take the dog as payment,” Maes grins. “Tell me about the lady— _not_ your dog, please.”

“I have no idea what to tell you,” it’s honest—a lament, in fact, “her name’s Riza Hawkeye, she lives in Blake Street a block from the pet salon. Her dog’s name is Hayate. The dog’s four years old. She lives in a first floor of a condo, so she has a yard and all that jazz. For her dog.”

Maes shoots him a look. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah,” Roy shrugs. “I mean. She’s just going to adopt two dogs from me, what else am I supposed to know?”

Maes pulls his phone out and Roy makes a face. “What are you, a teenager?”

“No, I’m thirty-two, and _so are you_ , so stop blubbering when it comes to women. They say these days teenage girls are better at digging up info than you feds anyways,” Maes says with a roll of his eyes, and Roy wisely opts out of retorting. _Him_ , _blubbering_ when it comes to women? “Found her— _damn_.”

He’d feign disinterest, except he doesn’t really want to. Roy folds his arms on the table and leans forward, beckoning Maes to show him. “Your Riza Hawkeye is a goddess.”

Roy blinks. Riza Hawkeye _was_ pretty, gorgeous, even, with her shrewd, bright brown eyes and her shiny blonde hair, her curved lips, the faint freckles on her face. But coming from Maes, the most one-woman-man he’s ever known, who has _not_ shut up about Gracia—whom, for all Roy knows, is Maes’ first and only love ever, his highschool sweetheart and soulmate, because some people are annoyingly lucky like that—even since he first met him at the academy? Maes looks up, and notices him rendered speechless, and snorts.

“It’s what it said here,” he says, sliding the phone across. Roy catches it and raises an eyebrow.

** THE GODDESS ARTEMIS OF AMESTRIS WINS GOLD AT XING OLYMPICS **

Underneath the bolded text is a close-up of Riza Hawkeye’s (incredibly beautiful) side profile as she fixes on a bow and arrow, pulling taut at the string, eyes sharp and focused. Roy pauses and tries to hide his breath hitching from Maes before scrolling down, and finding more sets of pictures: more close-ups and full-body shots of her in the range, and also a single, front-facing picture. In it, Riza is smiling, close-mouthed and prim, but her eyes are shining bright and her cheeks are flushed a pretty pink as she lifts a golden plate.

RIZA HAWKEYE, 29, bested local prodigy Lan Fan, 19, for the Gold Plate in Summer 2019 World Olympics for women’s individual events in archery, bringing glory to Amestris for the rising-in-popularity sports for the fifth year in a row. Hawkeye, who has taken social media by the storm since her picture in action during the 2017th Olympics went viral, comes out on top from 64 qualifiers in the event. Her scores even surpassed that of the reigning men’s individual archery gold medalist, Ishvalan-Amestrian Herne Miles.

Miss Hawkeye, who has been dubbed both “the Hawk’s Eye” and “Artemis of Amestris”, won over by defeating Lan Fan, ten years her junior but a Xingese favourite herself, by hitting perfect center on the shootout after a 5-5 draw.

“Shot by the cupid herself, are you?” Hughes says with a snicker, because he’s an ass.

But then again, he can’t even muster a retort. Roy lingers on the smiling picture of Riza Hawkeye, ignoring Maes’ kick to his shin, and smiles.

+

Kain finds himself in an interesting predicament yet again, and at this point, it shouldn’t surprise him, but he’s always been a rather gullible and unassuming guy, so he is surprised.

And pretty fucking _terrified_.

“So,” Professor Hughes says, grinning, “how _did_ the puppy love even happened?”

He thought it was because of sheer luck that he survived the ordeal of letting-someone’s-dog-who-you’re-supposed-to-be-sitting-get-pregnant-by-another-dog-you’re-supposed-to-be-sitting, and thought he would rarely need to see Agent Mustang, because sans the three times Lady was put at the pet hotel in the past two months, he wasn’t one of Kain’s regulars, unlike Miss Hawkeye. But no, it turns out Agent Mustang is _his professor’s best friend_. Not just any professor. His _thesis advisor_.

In fact, it’s _Professor Hughes_ who recommended his pet hotel to the agent in the first place. Which is—baffling. How did he even _knew_ Kain works at a pet hotel? _Probably it’s because I smell like a wet dog everytime I had thesis revision consult_. Is he going to fail Kain’s thesis because his best friend is unsatisfied with Kain’s subpar dog-sitting? _Hopefully not, oh my god_.

“I, uh,” how is it twice in a week he has to answer to the question of how did the dogs mate—he doesn’t know! He probably was slaving away on his laptop to continue his manuscript and he just thought the dogs get along exceptionally well with each other! “Sir, I—have no idea.”

“What a hilarious situation,” Professor Hughes chortles. “He loves that dog to death, you know. He acts like she’s his human child.”

Kain flinches.

“I mean, you got to excuse him, Kain. He adopted Lady when he was in a really low point in his life,” the professor says, leaning back on his office chair and sipping on his coffee. “But don’t worry, I don’t think he minds now. Apparently Miss Riza Hawkeye is very accommodating.”

That she is. “Yeah, Sir,” Kain says, relieved, “she really is. Thankfully she’s not averse to taking care of more dogs. I was kind of worried they would have fought or something.” He shivers, and Hughes laughs boisterously.

“Roy was that dramatic, huh?” He chuckles. “This Riza Hawkeye is a regular, then, to your grooming salon.”

“Yes,” Kain says, feeling somewhat off with the way the conversation’s going. “Um, I found Hayate, but I couldn’t take care of him and both our salon and the vet clinic next door has a no-dropoff policy. I felt bad having to take him to the shelter, though, and put some flyers up, then she adopted him from me.”

“Adorable,” Professor Hughes hums. “What’s she like?”

 _I thought you’re married with a kid and a wife you never tires of gushing on and on about—_ oh _._ Kain has to suppress a groan. He literally walked into a trap. He’s here for his thesis, damn it, and the only time he doesn’t have to patiently sit there and listen to his advisor’s endless bragging about his family he has to be dragged into some kind of dramatic, cartoony love-story scenario that Hughes’ is definitely planning?

God. He wishes his scholarship covers the expenses of _time_.

“So apparently _now_ the agent’s no longer pissed his dog’s expecting because he found Miss Hawkeye pretty,” he tells Sheska later that day as he walks her home from the library. “This is the first time in my thesis history Professor Hughes doesn’t talk about his daughter.”

“Miss Hawkeye _is_ really pretty. And not to mention a celebrity too, so I’m not really surprised,” Sheska laughs, airy and soft. “But he did give you his revisions?”

“Yeah,” Kain shrugs, absently scratching an itch under his jaw. “It took like ten minutes for him to go over that. I was there for almost _two hours_.”

Sheska casually loops her arm through his and Kain almost trips over. “Well you’re used to that. But anyways, it’s so sweet, isn’t it?”

“What?” He asks, voice embarassingly hoarse. Damn it. They’ve held hands since they were children, _why_ is he like this.

“Why, Miss Hawkeye and the agent—agent who?”

“Agent Mustang?” For someone who can almost perfectly recite all things legible her eyes had ever laid sight on, Sheska is _horrible_ in remembering people’s names and people’s faces, too, sometimes.

“Yeah! It reminds me of a romance novel I once read, it was…”

+


	2. i can take ‘em head-to-head, go toe-to-toe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy holds his lukewarm cup tighter to prevent his hand from moving to do it on his own.
> 
> (Fucked. So fucked.)
> 
> “Well,” she hums, picking up her tea—hasn’t she finished by now?—and sipping it again. “I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

Sunday morning finds Roy walking on the park with Lady on his heel, leash off because she’s a very good girl and she never strays. After his weeks in South City things fall into a strangely lax limbo of waiting, since there’s no movement yet from his investigations—expected, but still. Leisures like these are rare, but once they come, he’s always quick to enjoy. He knows once things pick up in action he’ll barely have time to breathe.

The Roy Mustang three years ago would’ve been a restless mess on his toes, would’ve preferred to go full offense to seize his mission but he’s no longer Major Roy Mustang, now, just Agent Roy Mustang, and he’s grown a deep, deep appreciation for downtimes.

As it stands, he knows _exactly_ what he wants to do now before things get hectic.

A doggy-playdate because _I don’t know, Lady might miss your mutt_ when in reality Lady is a perfectly capable and independent dog-lady, thank you very much, is a weak excuse, but there must be _something_ in it for Riza Hawkeye too, Roy slightly smugly thinks, because she’s walking towards him with her black dog trotting by her side, holding two cups of coffee. _Blubbering when it comes to women, Hughes?_

“Hello,” he says, putting on his best charming, disarming grin (it always works, with women who aren’t Aunt Chris and Vanessa and Olivier Armstrong), “should I help you carry one of that or do you have a habit of drinking two full cups of coffee every morning?”

Hawkeye smiles that prim, reserved smile he’s seen so much of (his search history is rather humiliating) and hands him the cup on her left.“I don’t know how you take it, so it’s one milk one sugar.”

“Go nuts with the sugar next time,” he says, then.

“I think next one should be on you,” the blonde says drily, and ( _you’re thirty-two_ , Hughes’ voice says) Roy’s heart does a somersault because _God_ , they’re flirting. “Jasmine tea with no sugar.”

He chuckles instead, hoping the acrobatics performance in his chest won’t make its way known in his face. “I’ll keep that in mind,” then, “but what do you take in the evenings?”

Hawkeye regards him with a long, contemplative look. “White wine or bourbon, depends on how the day went.”

They fall into step and a comfortable silence, and Riza walks towards the nearest empty bench as he does without him gesturing her to. The pups prance along, peppering each other happy little kisses all the while, and he looks at them with a genuine sense of morose, eliciting her laugh.

“What, you don’t feel something like oh—my kid’s all grown up?”

“No,” Hawkeye says, eyes glimmering with amusement under the gentle morning sun. She’s wearing a short-sleeved turtleneck shirt; it clings to her nicely but modestly enough that he’s not tempted to stare and a simple gray pencil skirt that falls under her knees, with a short slit at the side. The wine-red compliments her pale skin and honey-brown eyes. Roy thinks she looks beautiful.

“Well, that’s how it is to me,” he says petulantly, not trusting himself enough to let silence linger, lest he’ll openly ogle (admire) the smooth slope of Hawkeye’s nose, the soft, wispy ends of her straw-coloured bangs catching on her long light lashes. Hawkeye snorts and sips her tea.

“Whatever would happen if you get married to someone and have a daughter, one day?” She nonchalantly says, and Roy almost bristles at the instantaneous, involuntary flashes of images of a dark-haired little girl with amber eyes laughing in the arms of a blonde woman with eyes the exact same shade.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ , he thinks. He’s met the woman twice and his brain already decides to supply a wild scenario. He’s read about this before—a psychological phenomenon where one can conjecture a startlingly vivid imagination in a flash of a moment, but, this?

He needs to stop hanging out with Maes.

“I’ll cross that bridge when I get there,” he shrugs, hoping his voice won’t come out as scratchy as his throat feels. “And by the way, congratulations on the gold, Artemis.”

She shoots her a look that easily tells him she finds the nickname ridiculous—so he’s _definitely_ going to keep saying it, obviously, but she smiles. “Thank you,” she sincerely says, and then sighs. “Not to be pompous, but you searched me up, then.”

“I did not. I have an extremely nosy friend. I prefer to get to know women more organically,” he says teasingly, and Hawkeye snorts. “But I couldn’t help myself, however, to get into a deeper research. As they said, you put an arrow through everyone’s hearts, Miss Hawkeye.”

Riza groans, exasperated, but Roy catches the tip of her ears reddenning and the flush crawling to her cheeks—disappearing under the high collar of her top. He has to forcibly snap his eyes (and brain) back to her eyes. “The _worst_ thing that’s happened in my life.”

“Really? The twelve million people who watched that video would beg to differ. I’ve seen the comments,” he grins, “‘she’s a goddess’, ‘literally Artemis reincarnate’, ‘please shoot that arrow straight through my heart, ma’am’—“

“Oh my god, _shut up_ ,” she says, abandoning her paper cup on the bench to bury her face in her hands, and Roy notices she’s flushing a deeper red. “I can’t believe you watched that.”

The picture that had buzzed through the internet was an admittedly very flattering and timely photo of her releasing an arrow; the photograph was timed perfectly as her hair flew over her shoulder, a majestic gold around her face. And her eyes in the picture—anyone could drown in there easily.

There was a video, too; equally—if not more—breathtaking. It was her semis, her final set that she was rapidly approaching in record time. Her golden hair had been hanging a mess around her face since the start of the set, but her eyes held a burning focus that paid no mind to the world outside of her target. In startling efficiency she pulled the first arrow, interchanging with the Drachman opponent, then the second, and then the fourth, rapid successions of released points executed in grace and speed he never knew was possible. Each one landing inside the ten-point circle. All his life in the military he’s grown familiar with rifles, revolvers, colts, automatics and whatnot. He’s seen his old unit’s best sniper in action, marvelled in awe at the guy, but he never thought such grace and efficiency could extend to bows and arrows.

Riza Hawkeye only slowed down when she held her fifth arrow, pulling it back against the string. She breathed once, twice, calm and deep, eyes still gleaming under the harsh, bright light of the stadium, and then she let go. The thin band that held her hair together snapped just _perfectly_ as the arrow pierced the air, and her hair fell down to her shoulders only to flew up as the air recoiled around her, framing her beautiful face in gold—gold that she would bring home. The bow spun in her left hand, and the fifth arrow sliced through one of the arrows she’d shot, splitting them in two. She smiled down to the ground as the crowd erupted in a deafening cheer.

Roy’s watched it an embarassing amount of times. Especially the slow-motion recap.

(In his defense, he’s seen comments of people saying they’ve watched it over and over too.)

“You were amazing,” he says genuinely. “Did somebody contact you for a movie or something afterwards?”

Riza scrunches her nose in disdain; her freckles are even more pronounced under the sunlight. “I wasn’t interested. Still not.”

“Why, Miss Hawkeye, is mystery and secrecy part of the image?”

She rolls her eyes. “This is an unfair game,” she retorts, but it’s without venom. “I can’t search up _Roy Mustang_ and find the equal humiliation, can I?”

“You can try,” he says, grinning; really, her viral celebrity moment was anything but humiliating, “although for me personally, secrecy _is_ part of the image. It’s my charming point. Can’t help it women flock brooding, mysterious men.”

Riza Hawkeye laughs, then, freely and uninhibited, and Roy feels the tang of the too-bitter coffee on the back of his throat along with a wild fluttering in his stomach. He is thoroughly screwed, he thinks. The dogs are no longer having fun frolicking about; her black dog has settled on the grass and Lady has followed, their muzzles close as they seemingly drift to sleep.

So much for an excuse.

“You know,” she says, still softly chuckling, “a man who goes irrationally irate over her dog is hardly mysterious, much less brooding.”

“Does that mean you’re not interested to know more than this silly dog owner, then?” He blurts out, knowing perfectly well it’s a deep rethoric, and hoping she’ll respond like—like how he hopes to. Riza Hawkeye regards him with a small smile, softer than the bright, euphoric-champion ones she wear after her wins, and almost shyly, she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

Roy holds his lukewarm cup tighter to prevent his hand from moving to do it on his own.

(Fucked. _So_ fucked.)

“Well,” she hums, picking up her tea—hasn’t she finished by now?—and sipping it again. “I wouldn’t be here, would I?”

+

He finally, _finally_ drops the dog excuse the third time he asks her out. He takes her to an incredibly fancy Cretan restaurant to have dinner, dressed handsomely in a three-piece suit with no tie, and cajoles her into nursing his favourite kind of whiskey. In truth, she has an embarassing tolerance, and she’s grown pink all too quick and he, ever the gentleman, asks if she wants to go home.

(She does, she wants him to come with, she’s not even shy to admit it anymore. Rebecca would’ve shrieked in glee if she heard.)

“I still want to chat,” she admits, leaning her head on the cool window of his car. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knows if she had stuck with wine she wouldn’t say all this. “It’s a bit unfair, still, everything’s about me _out there_ and I know next to nothing about you.”

He doesn’t look at her, keeping his eyes trained on the road and he grins. He shouldn’t have driven, he also drunk a glass. But well. “I wouldn’t say everything,” he says, “and for me, it’s part of the image.” He tells her this a little teasingly, and Riza snorts.

“Women like mystery because they want to solve them,” she tells him pointedly, and Roy laughs. She likes his laugh. It’s deep and the timbre reverberates through the air slightly, dragging the things around him in like a force of gravity.

“What do you want to know?” He asks, finally. “You need only ask, Riza.”

Riza sits up straighter and tries to sort the jumble of questions running through her mind at miles per minute. _You said you used to be in the military were you in the Ishval conflict what was it like have you ever been shot are you alright how many times have you dated seriously do you have a certain type do you have any family are you close with them what’s your favourite food that’s not Xingese because I can’t cook them on second thought do you perhaps have Xingese blood what’s your favourite colour do you have a favourite book what about movies and music and—_

“How did you adopt Lady?”

She internally groans. So it’s _her_ who can’t let go of the dog excuse.

Roy smiles, then. He looks wistful, slightly melancholic; from the sparse (too sparse) moments they share, he rarely ever smiles this reserved, small quirk of the corners of his mouth and those eyes that make him look softer, younger. It’s different than his usual, teasing and boyish smiles, that he alternates with a quiet, composed confidence. She likes all those looks on him, but this, this one specifically, might just be her favourite.

It makes him look warmer, more open—almost vulnerable. It’s different than the coy and suave persona that he has to balance out the hardened military man.

“I told you I used to be in the military,” he says, and Riza hums, “I was in Ishval.”

Riza blinks. A question answered. Perhaps she picked the right question to ask after all. “You were?”

“Yes, and I got injured,” he says, “almost lost my left eye—actually lost the sight for a little while.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, “you don’t have to continue if—“

The car pulls to a stop, and they’re already in front of her house, she realises. Roy turns to her after shutting the engines. He reaches to take her hand and runs a thumb on her knuckles while still smiling that soft, wistful smile and Riza feels her heart skips several beats altogether. “Don’t worry, I’m fine, and I don’t mind you hearing it,” he laces their fingers together, and clasps his other one over. Her hand feels like it’s on fire. “The cornea was damaged, and I couldn’t see from the left. I was offered a medical discharge and I accepted, because, well, blinded in one eye is quite frankly the least of my problems, back then.”

Riza understands. She might not understand the workings of a war, not understand the ordeals an officer goes through, but she understands the meaning of his words. “She’s a therapy dog,” she voices, small and brittle. Roy nods, and brings her hand to his lips, brushing a kiss on the back.

“Things really took a turn for the better after I got her. I was even eligible for a corneal transplant,” he says. “She really helped me get back on my feet. I think she’s my lucky charm.”

“I’m glad,” she tells him genuinely, heartbeat running a mile per minute. Then, all of a sudden, his smile stretches into a smirk—mischievous and coy and the abrupt disappearance of his vulnerability startles her into a jump.

“Do you want to see it?”

“Huh—?”

Then, using her hand he’s holding he pulls her in a swoop and at the same time leans forward, until they’re leaning towards each other, barely centimeters apart across the threshold between the driver’s and the passenger’s seat. Riza can barely let out a soft yelp because her breath’s knocked off of her. Roy brings her hand to his cheek and Riza lets her eyes wander to his; she stares in awe at the depth of his dark eyes, and wondrously notes the faint ridges on his left cornea,. The ridges are in the shape of a uniform burst encircling his dark iris, akin to the shape of a hand-drawn sun, and she can’t tell if those are hair-thin sutures or just what’s left of it. What she can tell, though, is that in this distance and the faint light from outside of the car his eyes look like a night’s sky full of stars; or a bursting sun.

“Riza,” he whispers; asks. He’s let go of her hand, and now the hand is cupping her face, running a thumb on her cold cheekbone.

He leans in first, this she knows perfectly because she suddenly feels so, so very sober and her entire body stands on her nerves’ ends. His lips are warm and chapped but so are hers, and her eyes flutter closed as he shifts to fit, breath warm against her own. She feels the soft, wet touch of his tongue and lets her lips part; he runs through her mouth and they no longer feel chapped and dry, and then his tongue is inside and a heavy weight plunges from her chest to the depth of her lower belly.

It takes forever. Their first kiss isn’t chaste in any way, shape or form but it’s tender and perhaps even more intoxicating than the whiskey she still tasted on his tongue. When they pull apart she feels dizzy and hot all over, and she leans her forehead on his as she catches her breath, eyes still closed. Roy chuckles.

He walks her to her door, and leans on her doorway, arms crossed and smiling a half-smile in that excruciatingly handsome way that she’s learned he does all things in. When Hayate bursts through the door, he bends to pet him, and then straightens up.

He kisses her again, a short one this time, but it’s the warm embrace he pulls her into—flush against his chest, his arms around hers, her head tucked under his chin in the crook of his neck—that has her desperately clutch on her last strength to not ask him to stay.

She’s not strong enough.

She doesn’t need to tiptoe too far to kiss him on the cheek. “Bring Lady next time,” she blurts out, and he tilts his head, his hair falling to his eyes, questioning, “and drinks. I’ll make dinner. Do you have anyhing you prefer? Other than Xingese, because it’s hard to cook. I mean, I don’t mean to assume but are you Xingese? I can set up a movie night or—”

He laughs, then, interrupting her word-vomit and seizes her waist again to kiss her and effectively shut her up. Right. She’s never been a chatter anyways. “Everything sounds great,” he tells her after they finally part, sounding slightly breathless. And finally, he plants a last, reluctant kiss on her forehead. His smile is breathtaking. “Good night, Riza.”

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little bit emo this time because what’s royai without tragic backstory amirite anyways……… have a great day and week ppl! 
> 
> this tzuyu fancam:  
> https://youtube.com/watch?v=B-WnGtDUmQI
> 
> THIS irene fancam:  
> https://youtube.com/watch?v=j4CqoRV6qmM
> 
> and THIS IRENE AND TZUYU FANCAM:  
> https://youtube.com/watch?v=pTWwxk06eu4


	3. i shot another bad boy down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoo fluff abounds

“Where’s my kid’s gift, loverboy?”

Roy makes a face, and hands Maes a small paperbag. Maes raises an eyebrow. “I had the understanding it would be a living breathing thing?”

“They’re not here yet,” he says, “look, be glad I’m here. Do you see any other _friend_ of yours making the time—“

“ _Uncle Rooooy_!”

Roy whips his head and smiles; but it drops just as soon as it bloomed on his face. The small, familiar voice comes from _far_ above and he comes face-to-face with a very big and very formidable figure. Major Armstrong, in all his brilliant and well-groomed mustache glory, walks up to him with Elycia situated far above, perched on his left shoulder looking as giddy and happy as ever. “Major Armstrong, you’re here.”

“I couldn’t possibly miss the little one’s very important sixth birthday, could I?” He booms. With only one hand securing Elycia— _God_ Hughes need to be a bit more cautious about the people he lets carry Elycia around, _look at how tall she’s sitting on up there_ —he clasps Roy’s free hand and grips it as tightly as ever. Roy winces. “Good to see you, Agent Mustang, very good! I’ll never be used to calling you that.”

“Yes, well, it’s what it is now,” he says noncommittally. “Having fun, El? How’s the weather up there, kid?”

“It’s bright up here and breezy,” Elycia answers happily, “Uncle Alex can I come down?”

“Down you go,” Armstrong cheerily says, and Elycia holds to his hands with a gleeful giggle. Once her feet touches the ground she zooms to Roy with her arms spread, and Roy reflexively lowers himself to welcome her into a hug.

“Uncle Roy where’s my gift?”

Roy chuckles, fixing his hold on his goddaughter as he carries her in Armstrong’s stead, and follows Maes deeper into the house. He hears laughters of children and the clamor and buzzes of the birthday party as he does so. He’ll never admit it to anyone, least of all Hughes, but Maes’ is probably the closest to an ideal life he wants for his future. He lets everyone, and himself, believes he’s a ladies’ man, forever a _bachelor_ by heart, living to chase a good life in his career but his upbringing and the nature of his old and current occupations had made his vision shift into some of the more domestic aspects of life.

So yes, he complains to Maes about having to attend his kid’s birthday party, but really, he’s somewhat glad to be there.

“In it for the prize, aren’t you? El, don’t you miss me?” He teases, shaking Elycia slightly in his arms. He gets a kiss on the cheek as response.

“I do! Where’s my gift?”

“Your kid’s quite the charmer,” he says as he approaches Gracia and Maes, in the process of cutting the cake—it’s quite the horror to see, the well-made face of a cartoon princess he can’t be bothered to remember the name of that’s been cut away irregularly. “Hey, Gracia. How are you?”

“I’m great, Roy, thanks for making the time.” Gracia notes his stare and she smiles sheepishly. “Look, stop sending me a judging stare, the princess’ face is hard to cut.”

Roy grins, and lets Elycia down so Maes can give her his gift. “What matters is all the layers under.”

“You mean all the sugar,” Gracia retorts, “you ought to tone it down, you know, you’ll get pre-diabetes.”

“It’s _so cute and fluffy_ ,” Elycia shrieks as she holds the white plush dog Roy got her before he can defend his culinary inclinations to Gracia. “Uncle Roy, thank you!”

“My pleasure, kid,” he says, fluffing her hair as Elycia hugs him before running off. “Wait until I give her the real puppy and watch that number one uncle place be mine until the day she gets married.”

“Ambitious,” Gracia laughs, handing him a plate of white cake that he immediately stabs with his fork to gobble down. Roy savours the sweetness of the whipped cream, mixed with the slight sour of cream cheese. In hindsight, maybe there’s a simpler reason why he, an unmarried thirty-something with no kid, is glad to be at a six year old birthday party other than the good company and the comfortable, laid-back domestic vibe. Cake.

“There’s _plenty_ of time until she gets married for you to get replaced by literally anyone. You know, you should go make a kid of your own before you try to steal mine,” Maes grouses, and both Roy and Gracia snorts. “Speaking of making kids, Orion—“

“ _Orion_?”

Maes grins. “I can’t let it go. Y’know Orion was blinded in Chios because—?”

“I’m perfectly aware,” Roy sniffs, taking offence, “I took Xerxian myth in high school too, asshole.”

“Keep your mouths clean, this is a six-year-old’s birthday party,” Gracia chides, and whips her head over to the door, where the bell rings, “is that her? I’ll get her. Maes is going to scare her off home.”

“Hey!”

 _You’re a lifesaver_ , Roy says around his mouthful of cake, and hastily swallows, half a mind realising he probably should, well, try to keep up appearances a little bit. Maes raises an eyebrow as he considerably straightens himself and eats the princess cake in a way that’s a little too-dignified compared to before. Roy ignores him.

Gracia re-emerges, then, and Roy sees Riza follow behind her with a slightly tense look on her face; he feels a little bad, but she relaxes into a smile as they got into each other’s line of view, and he beckons her to come near him. “Maes, Gracia, this is Riza Hawkeye.”

“Sorry I got held up, I had to take a call,” Riza says, shaking Maes’ hand.

“Heard _a lot_ about you,” says Maes, and Roy rolls his eyes while Riza chuckles.

“I hope all good things,” she says, sending a look his way. She looks so pretty today, he thinks, in an airy light blue dress that falls modestly below her knees, her hair tied up in a sensible ponytail. “I heard some about you too. Nice to meet both of you, Maes and Gracia.”

“Definitely not good things,” Maes grins, “so, Miss Hawkeye—“

“Riza, please.”

“Watch it,” Roy warns. Maes snorts.

“You all really are way too stifling on me,” he says, “I just want to congratulate her on her last gold. I have to say we binged some of your top Olympics performances. You’re incredible, certainly a pride to the country.”

“Thank you,” Riza says modestly, “I try.”

“Don’t be too intimidating on her, you’re a little intense,” Gracia lightly says with a kiss on Maes’ cheek, as she rounds up the table. She cocks her head towards Roy but smiles to Riza. “Do you share Roy’s five-year-old palate or are you a normal adult like the rest of us?”

Riza grins, ignoring his indignant protests. “Definitely a normal adult,” she answers, and gracefully accepts Gracia’s platter of panna cotta. “Thank you. This looks great.”

“It _is_ great,” Hughes pipes in, and Roy groans at his direction. “What! You agree. Gracia makes some _sinful_ panna cotta, you said this verbatim. By the way,” he reaches out to hook his arm around Gracia’s waist, and pulls his wife close, “thank you for actually making the time to come.”

“Yes,” Gracia agrees with a soft smile, “I know a kid’s birthday party is hardly a fun one, despite their beliefs otherwise.”

Roy had been a little bit apprehensive to follow through Maes’ suggestion to bring Riza. They haven’t been together for long—it’s only been about two months since he returned from South City to pick up Lady at the pet hotel and subsequently met her. They’ve been going at a leisurely pace, slowly learning about each other and while meeting with friends is normally far from meet-your-family level, Maes is, after all, his closest friend; he was best man in his and Gracia’s wedding, and he’s also named godfather. There’s some substance there, and he’d feared it might intimidate, or worse, scare her off; feared she would think it too soon. But at the same time, he was sort of _eager_ to ease her further into his life—there’s just this small voice at the back of his head that tells him this—them— _Riza Hawkeye,_ might be it.

Well. Curse him for being a romantic.

But she had took his carefully casual, nonchalant, don’t-worry-no-presure-you-totally-don’t-have-to invitation in stride, even going so far as to personally pick out a gift for Elycia. It surprised him. Pleasantly. Immensely.

“No, no,” Riza shakes her head, “it sounded pretty fun, actually.”

It was what she told him, too, when he asked her if she wanted to go. _Sure, it sounds nice. And she’s your goddaughter, so she must hope you to come._ He hesitated, and told her with a grin, _it’ll be rambunctious_. She sent him a small smile. _I’ve never been to a six-year-old birthday party before. It sounds pretty fun._

“Well,” Gracia says pleasantly, “we _do_ get the champagnes out for the adults when it gets too hectic.”

“Thats wonderful,” Riza tells her after scooping a small amount of panna cotta. She closes her eyes and hums as the soft dessert enters her mouth, and Roy’s mind goes blank. “Wow. This _is_ sinful.”

 _You know what’s sinful_ , he thinks dryly, _is what’s in my mind while I’m at my goddaughter’s birthday party_.

Maes sends him a knowing smirk, but his saving grace, Elycia, re-emerges running towards them with a barrage of _UncleRoyUncleRoyUncleRoy_ , and, god bless the kid for keeping his brain on track. Roy shoves a last spoonful of cake into his mouth, averting his eyes from Riza, before turning to the little girl. “Uncle Roy who do you think I should name him?”

“I don’t know,” he says after he finishes swallowing the cake, and he bends down again to carry Elycia though she doesn’t prompt him too. “What do you have in mind? Gosh, you’re getting heavy. How many plates of cake did you eat?”

“Just one,” Elycia cheerfully says. She turns, then, and gasps, before leaning to whisper—really, scream-whisper, as kids do—to his ear, “who is she?”

“Elycia, sweetheart,” Gracia says, “say hi, this is Miss Riza Hawkeye. She’s Uncle Roy’s, uh—“

“Girlfriend,” he whispers to Elycia conspiratorially, and from the corner of his eyes he catches Riza rolling hers. Elycia giggles at that. “Hey, actually, she’s the one who got you the plush dog. You wanna say hi and thank you?”

“Uncle Roy is your girlfriend a princess? She looks like one.” His goddaughter asks, and _hell_ , there’s no _bigger boost of pride_ than that. He whirls to face Riza, Elycia still in his arms, and grins.

Riza’s eyes flash in realisation and she tilts her head, exasperated and warning. “Roy, don’t you dare—“

“Nope, she’s a goddess,” he says, to which Riza heaves a defeated sigh, a faint blush on her cheeks. Elycia’s eyes go wide.

“But Uncle Roy, you’re not even a prince,” she accuses. Roy winces. Well, _that_ , he isn’t, and he’d retort back but he should be the adult here, even if he has to bear being the brunt of the joke, as Maes and Gracia laughs heartily and Riza’s mouth turn upwards into a lovely smile. His heart does a terrible somersault. Maybe it’s the cake. Maybe it’s time to ask Gracia to whip out that champagne.

Kids. Honest to a fault.

+

Roy was supposed to meet her at the restaurant after work, but half an hour into her waiting he called to let her know he was stumped with work. So Riza tells him to eat dinner and rest well, then decides to get her food to take out. She eats her dinner at home and finishes Hayate’s business and walk, and settles onto her settee to read a novel after a relaxing bath. She had practice at the range the whole afternoon, and the warm bubbled bath does _wonders_ on her muscles. Her next competition’s not in another six month, and her training schedule’s still somewhat sparse; she loves the feel of getting competitive and the hyper-focus that goes into all that, but these relaxing times are equally cherished.

So why she is opening her door to her frazzled boyfriend at about two AM with an armful of flowers is _beyond_ her.

“Wha—“ she stutters, eyes wide, “what are you _doing_?”

“Riza I’m so sorry,” he says, “I didn’t want to stand you up but I _really_ was backlogged at work, and I know you reserved the restaurant already and you had to eat alone and sorry I barged in late, I don’t want you to get mad—“

“Roy,” she gently interjects, “Roy, I’m—I’m not mad?”

“You’re not?”

Riza blinks. “Yes? Why would I be? You told me you can’t come because of work. It happens,” her eyes travel downwards to the red flowers in his hand, and her stare grows incredulous. “Where did you even get that at this hour? And why—because you thought I’m angry?”

Roy grins, sheepish and all too self-conscious, and Riza feels her chest fill with something rapidly expansive and wholly overcoming so suddenly she almost staggers backwards in its intensity. This man— _my god,_ she thinks, suddenly panicking herself—is a fool.

And she thinks she’s in love with him, and not only a little bit.

“You know,” she says, trying to sound light and not barely restraining herself to pull him by the throat to kiss him, because, _what an idiot_ , “it didn’t cross your mind that I might be angrier to be waken at this ungodly hour?”

“I didn’t really think this through, to be perfectly honest,” he admits. Riza thinks a tired and overworked and slightly silly man of thirty shouldn’t be this endearing, but he is. “Sorry.”

She takes a step forward and brushes his bangs back and away from his face, ignoring how it petulantly falls back as she rests her hand on his nape. “For a man of your record, you’re a bit of an idiot,” she truthfully tells him, deliberately letting her immense fondness seep through the words, “do you have a bad dating history or something?”

“A little bit of both,” he says, looping his arms around her to pull her close by the waist. Riza can feel the weight of the bouquet, bulky and slightly prickling, on her back. “Not that I have much of that, but, yeah. And Havoc got a rise out of me. I should’ve known better you wouldn’t be that unreasonable.”

He scowls, and Riza can’t help it. She laughs, and pulls him down to kiss him squarely on the mouth, welcoming the feel of his lips against hers, the soft swipe of his tongue. She pulls back, and affectionately holds both his cheeks in her hands, letting him lean onto her palms. “Where’s Lady?”

“In my car,” he says, eyes fluttering to a close at her touch.

“Good,” she grins, forcing him to open his eyes by a soft squeeze on either of his cheeks, which prompts him into a boyish pout, “bring her in, we’re having a double-date.”

+

He wakes up feeling oddly well-rested despite having slept for barely three hours, according to the sleek digital clock on the bedside table. It’s six-thirty-five, and yes, he did arrive at her house somewhere around two but she seemed to be rather endeared by his stupid feat that they ended up engaging in, well, activities until somewhere after three. The thought brings a grin to his face, one that gets even wider as he feels her stir in his arms.

Riza turns and blinks sleepy rich brown eyes up to him, lips slightly parted, lightly chapped, but still, Roy can’t _not_ dive down and kiss them. There’s a soft noise, like a sigh only sweeter, that tumbles out of her lips into his and it ignites something that makes him push his tongue over her lips and then into her mouth; something so proud and possessive that has him taking her first breath of the day for himself. When he finally pulls back she’s breathless and dazed, and it makes him smile.

“Good morning,” she greets him dazedly. Roy kisses her nose and forehead and cheeks in successions as a response, and grins when the soft pink blush spreads over her face. “Do you have to go to work today?”

Roy groans. “I wish I don’t,” he says, and he means it. “But I think we’re actually going to get busier, now.”

“What time?” Riza asks, burrowing her face into his chest and letting him hug her close. Her hair smells like faint fresh citrus and vanilla, and she shivers when Roy’s fingers softly touch the uneven scars on her back. It had been a surprise, and it had been a point of apprehension on her part last night, but Roy managed to soothe her with a light bravado on his part— _Don’t worry, I have a lot of those_ , he told her, carefully maintaining a charming smile, and in between their hungry touches that followed she slipped soft, featherlight touches of wonder on his scars. It wasn’t patronizing, her curiosity, her soft _and this?_ to a wound courtesy of a stray bullet. She was careful in her touches, her questions, and likewise, he tried to remain reverent in his.

“Eight,” he sighs. “Or nine. Havoc will understand.”

“Sounds like a nice friend,” she hums, pushing back, and Roy mourns from even the slight part from her soft, soft, skin. “I’ll make you breakfast.”

She slips off the bed before he can protest, and Roy sighs before going off to clean up and dress. He takes both the dogs out, and when he returns Riza has procured an extra bowl for Lady _plus_ an extra portion of raw meat and some other ingredients normally would go into _his_ plate rather than his dog’s, but he can’t really complain if she’s going to pamper his dog with some real food rather than kibble. His own pancakes and omelette are ready anyways, lightly steamy and looking good.

When he realizes he has instinctively slid into her kitchen—larger than his bachelor pad could ever offer, more lived-in, more cooked-in—to hug her from behind and kiss the top of her head, it sinks in that _he is in trouble._

“Thanks for breakfast,” he tells her, voice strained, and she senses it, because she turns around to raise an eyebrow.

“What’s wrong with your voice?”

“It’s fine,” he shrugs, clearing his throat and ducking down to kiss her lightly on the lips. “I get hoarse in the mornings.”

He shovels his food down like he’s eating pancakes and eggs for the first time, idly watching the dogs eat with considerable enthusiasm, and remembers something interesting that can finally distract him, somewhat. “I saw that you almost have a whole arena for Hayate in the backyard,” he says, and Riza shrugs. “What, he used to compete too or something?”

“Not really,” she says, “he’s actually pretty lazy. I just thought he’d like to play, if he gets bored.”

“And I saw his toy baskets,” he adds, “he has _three_. Hawkeye, I named my dog Lady but your dog lives like a prince.”

Riza laughs, the sound short and sweet. “I think he deserves it. Hayate’s a good boy.”

“Like hell he is,” he retorts, and she snorts, “you do not have any rights to call me ridiculous about my dog, Miss. You spoil yours rotten—”

She rolls her eyes, and suddenly puts a piece of her own pancake into his mouth, forcing him to chew. “I’ll spoil him all I want, he’s my dog.”

Hayate yips, and goes to rub his face on Riza’s leg. She bends down to bring him up to her lap and fondly pats him. “Real gentleman,” he says dryly, pointing a lazy fork towards the dog. He responds in a loll of his tongue. “Getting back to Mama when your wife’s right there. You’re lucky your mom’s cute.”

She kicks him out at eight, despite him not really caring to hurry before Havoc rings him. She tells him to leave Lady with her, and he complies, because, really, it’ll probably be like a spa day for his dog in Riza’s house. Roy drives right to work, opting to just change clothes with his spare in the office rather than going home, and ponders why it feels so natural to kiss Riza goodbye in the morning and to think about coming home to her sometime later in the evening. He thinks he knows why.

+

It’s eleven PM and Kain is supposed to get blacked-out-drunk (not that he does it often but that’s precisely the point, _he doesn’t do this often_ ) instead of running so he can get the last train, which, he shouldn’t have worried about because his apartment is some ten-minutes walk away from the bar. But he’s not even halfway that drunk yet and here he is in panting in the train carriage.

His thesis defense went _great_. He felt like on cloud nine, Professor Hughes was positively beaming and he had that small inkling that this might be a good gateway to his career. So sue him for finally relenting to his friends’ peer pressure to join them and get smashed because hell yes, he’s now Kain Fuery, B.SE-CS, M.Sc-ICT; bachelor of science in engineering of computer science, and master of science in info-comm tech, _baby_.

“I’m not even that drunk yet,” he tells Sheska over the phone. She laughs at him.

“Like you actually care about getting drunk at all, Kain. I mean, getting your master’s degree is drunk-worthy, don’t get me wrong, but I know you. Anyways, do you want me to come?”

“Exactly, this is a once-in-a-blue-moon kinda thing. And no,” he says sulkily as he leans his head to the railing, “just go back to sleep. Is this what doctors feel like?”

“Probably. Give Miss Hawkeye my regards.”

“Have breakfast with me tomorrow?” He asks impulsively; he may not be (as) drunk (as he wanted to), but since his very first time drinking alcohol (and hers), that hangover breakfast is kind of a tradition. A rare one, since neither really like getting drunk that much, but Kain likes it. “Do you have to be at the library early?”

“No, let’s go. If you want to go to Tenner’s at four for a hangover meal I’ll even accompany you. Just call me. Are you hungover? You don’t sound hungover.”

Kain sighs. He loves her.

“Sure, Kain, love you too. Hope the puppies and the mom are all safe!”

His brain short-circuits. _Wha—did he—did she—_ “Fuuuck, _fuck, fuckfuckfuck._ ” Okay, maybe he’s _a bit drunk_.

He arrives in front of Miss Hawkeye’s door in a daze, and the woman opens the door looking like—looking like what he never sees her looking like; frazzled and slightly aghast. “ _Kain_ ,” she says, “I _have no idea what to do_.”

She almost runs to the inside of her quiet home and Kain awkwardly follows her. “Miss Hawkeye,” he calls, as she lowers herself to her knees to bend over a pen where Lady is lying down above an expanse of sterile-looking pads and also pillowed by soft-looking blankets and plushies, breathing softly. Hayate is outside the pen, looming over on his hind legs and leaning over the edge, in a decidedly somewhat worried fashion, he supposes? “Have you gone to the vet? I’m not a vet, you know.”

“We _have_ ,” she says, and it’s tense, “she said it’ll be fine, everything’s great and her condition’s great, but it’s scaring me and Roy’s not here.”

Now that’s a question for another time. Just what has passed _between the two_ that warrants Lady to be prepared to give birth in her house instead of his and just what is this arrangement between the two, and “ _we”_? But really, Kain’s not here to get himself bothered over his customers’ love life.

And yeah, well, he loves dogs, his parents has always got dogs all his life and even bred some, so he knows about whelping (if he didn’t go to engineering he’d definitely go for vet med) so Miss Hawkeye is probably right in calling him. Maybe this is the post-grad party he deserves, celebrating with the birth of some puppies. He strokes the white dog’s fur and feels the tough contraction under his hand. “It’s alright, good girl,” he soothes, and, with what he hopes to be a similar level of soothing, “it’s alright, Miss Hawkeye, uh. She’s doing great, really. It hasn’t been that long, is it?”

“She’s been fussy since afternoon, but she’s only settled in for an hour,” she breathes, “so, I don’t know—“

“Calm down, calm down,” he says, wincing a bit as he hopes he doesn’t sound too patronizing. Probably not, because Miss Hawkeye does heed his words and tries to take some deep breaths. “She’ll be okay, Miss Hawkeye. We’re just going to help a bit with the amniotic sacs, the cord, and just prevent her from eating the placenta. I mean, sometimes it’s fine, but sometimes they get diarrhea from eating the placenta, so.” He looks back at Hawkeye and she has a wide-eyed look on her face.

Huh. All these times she’s been going to the salon he’s always perceived her to be poised and graceful and put-together all the time. Lady lets out a small whine and Hawkeye leans over, almost frantic. “Is she okay, is she—? Sweetie, are you in pain?”

 _Of course she is, ma’am, she’s giving birth—aren’t you the woman here_ , he thinks, but being a smartass would probably not end well at this time. He pets Lady gently and the mommy-to-be leans her muzzle onto his hand, uncomfortable but decidedly chill about it. Unlike her—uh, mom-in-law, Kain supposes.

“She’s having contractions, it’ll be okay. Miss Hawkeye, it’s gonna be a bit of a, uh, um, _slimy_ work? But it’s nothing too bad, don’t worry—are you terribly squeamish?”

Hawkeye shakes her head. _Ah_ , Kain thinks, _definitely pretty squeamish, then_.

The three puppies come in slow successions, some hour or so between them, and Miss Hawkeye actually does pretty well in helping him clean up the sac for each puppy, the placenta, the mess of blood and fluids, though Kain suspects she’s really barely holding it together. The little puppies blindly waddles around to suckle on their mother, who seems spent enough she doesn’t even raise her head to drink from the small water bowl Hawkeye prepares for her. It’s somewhere around three when they finish and when he stands Kain’s knees crackles from kneeling for too long, but he can see Miss Hawkeye’s sweet fascination and pride, and it’s really adorable to see Hayate jumping inside the pen to lick his mate’s face and nuzzle her. There’s a bit of blood on his shirt but he refuses, horrified, when Hawkeye offers him a change from Agent Mustang’s wardrobe, _hell no_.

Miss Hawkeye suddenly laughs, as she hands him a mug of coffee. Kain politely does not ask, but she tells him anyways. “No—just, calling you at midnight just reminds me of this one time Roy arrives here at, I don’t know, two AM. Good to know my neighbors are people over sixty who usually sleep before nine, or I’ll be local gossip.”

 _Okay, that answers things_.

The man—Agent Mustang—himself barges in at four in the midst of small yips from the newborn pups, looking equally rumpled and tired as he thanks him and Kain thinks it’s his cue to leave when Agent Mustang kneels on the edge of the pen with Miss Hawkeye next to him, her arm around his waist, her head on his shoulder.

Maybe, just maybe, if he doesn’t chicken out _again_ he can tell Sheska that he loves her and wants to adopt a ton of puppies with her and let the doggies have puppies themselves and then spend quiet happy puppy times at ungodly hours in the morning like those two, _maybe_ , but he’s already completely sober now.

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mam i watched shibainushirosuki’s birth videos and im a bit traumatized (and ive watched human births a number of times) LIKEEEE I might even cry.  
> I definitely had artemis in mind when thinking about Hawkeye’s profession BUT I HAD NO IDEA ABOUT ORION who was artemis’ hunting companion slash lover who at one story was temporarily blinded (admittedly for a horrible reason) and I just?!?!?!? I’m sorry @ roy I can’t let that go either. ANYWAYS SOFT UNCLE ROY HELLO!!! I did tell yall this is tooth rotting fluff. which they deserve, okay, since even ff writers think their in-canon hard life is NOT ENOUGH.

**Author's Note:**

> SO??? HELLO LMAO this idea came into my mind and WOULDNT LEAVE. i... don’t know what pet hotel policies are like but??? pls just indulge me???
> 
> we know riza is THE dog mom but dont u wonder sometimes what kinda dog dad roy would be???? he’d be INSUFFERABLE okkkkkk plus it’s canon that hayate got a fam at the end of the series (which is a cruel contrast to royai thankyou very much) but also i headcanon that hayate's white mate is roy's and they share custody of the dog family and they get their shit together and get together and LIVE TOGETHER OK BECAUSE come on you can't tell me riza's rebuilding a nation while raising 5 dogs?!?!!!!! (but it's riza hawkeye, she probably can. BUT. INDULGE ME.)
> 
> ps huh i just eyeballed the kain/sheska tbh i didnt expect theyll be in the tags but wont they be the CUTEST


End file.
